Wow. How did I find this site? I’m a few
months shy of 50, and the memories have just flooded back over the
past few minutes.

Tying a bowline one-handed under the falls on the back side of the
darn. Trying to make it up that last few feet of rock face beside
the trail to Tsali.

Hearing a wildcat scream in the middle of the night on the hill
behind the cabins, and subsequently diverting my nocturnal
path toward the head and relieving myself instead on a bush beside
the cabin porch.

Watching in awe as Ben Abel played soccer. The pleasure I felt
during the ride in the bed of the flat bed to Canoe Camp, when I
also found out that he was a pretty good guy. Trying to ski on the
lake behind a boat with a 50 hp motor when at 14 I was almost 6 feet
tall and 200 pounds. Washing out the black frying pan at Nantahala,
wondering how the counselors could say it was clean enough even
though it still felt greasy to the touch, and thinkin’ how neat it
was that they used the cold spring there as a refrigerator. The
taste of bread dipped in bacon grease and fried on a stick over an
open fire.

Trying to keep those darned white clothes clean on Sunday. Mud
slides in the main yard on rainy days. Lexol on saddles. Trying to
get all that dirty laundry into that little white bag. Feeding so
many ring-necked snakes to the king snake that it got sick and threw
them all back up.

Steve Longnecker, his banjo, and wondering why that snake wouldn't
strike the hot-water balloon on cue. Don Scarboro and his energetic
wit. Bruce Capps , and his winter visits to my hometown to do a
slide show.

Dog Soldiers. Spending the night alone on the mountain with a pad of
paper and a pen.

My memory has faded, but I know I was at Sequoyah for three
non-consecutive years during the late 1960s and early 1970s. I know
I started as a Cherokee, and I believe it was the next year I was a
Catawba in Don Scarboro’s cabin. Then, I believe I skipped a few
years and returned to spent both the early and late terms that
summer as a Tuscarora.

I’m not sure exactly what years I was there, but I believe I’m
correct that I experienced several datable events during camp. I
believe I’m correct in remembering that I was at camp when I watched
the Apollo 11 moon landing, which was in 1969. That must have been my
Cherokee summer because the other two events both happened in 1974 –
Nixon’s resignation, and the release of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Second
Helping” album. As for the former, I am pretty sure I watched that
while at camp. I’m much more certain as to the latter, since I
remember a counselor driving half way across the state to buy the
album, and then bringing it back to camp for us all to ogle.

I don’t remember much about my Cherokee year, but I remember the
summer in Don’s Catawba cabin a bit better. I remember faces, but
the only other name I remember from that cabin was Joe Hunter. Even
after all these years, a song he made up still comes to mind from
time to time. The song was about toilet paper. That was also the
year that I finally learned the words to Don’s two signature song -
“Dem Bones” and “Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms.” (And I still remember
them!) That year, we also had a strange final skit. It involved
something to do with me pretending to catch spitballs in a coffee
can as they were “pitched” to me, and thumping the bottom of the can
with my finger to simulate each catch. I also remember that at the
end, the other guys threw a bucket of water in my face (NOT in the
script!)

I saw that Harry Lerch signed the book. Harry, I remember you. Want
me to prove it? Well, I can name the song most requested of you –
"Round Up", by Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

My Tuscarora year was also fun, but for some reason I
don’t remember it as well. My counselor was a wild man we all loved.
His name was Steve Bellamy, and he used to repeat a rhyme often that
started with “My name is Buck Bellamy. I’ve seen goats in the oat
fields. . . ) That is a loose rendition with omissions, the original
not being fit for publication here. He also taught us that when we
got sick in the future, we should eat a hot dog for breakfast. That
way, when we threw up at night, we’d have something pleasant tasting
to enjoy. I remember that our cabin also had had some sort of
50s-ish motorcycle group called the “Screaming Wheels.” Why? I dunno.
Just seemed like the thing to do at the time, I guess.

I am so disappointed that I only found this site after the 2007
reunion. Hope another will be planned in the future.